To Serve the Light
by Sunburned-Stickperson
Summary: All he really wants is relief, to die, to let his conscious fade away into oblivion. The Fates have other plans. They'd rather just make sure he doesn't want to die in the first place. No one ever said that a second (or third) chance at life was easy-but at least he got to himself first.
1. Chapter 1

**It's been a loooooong time, folks. I have to admit I had forgotten this one had existed as well. I found that one and a Hunchback of Notre Dame crossover that were both apparently finished, but hey. XD I'm sorry about how I've fallen off the face of the planet. Between college and my master's program... I don't think I've really written anything in a long time. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. :) I had forgotten how much I had liked this story. I wondered why I hadn't posted it yet.**

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He wasn't sure how they had found the Ankh and the other Pieces to bring him back to life. Juno was out there, and Juno was plotting something. At this point, he didn't care. He just wanted to sleep, and sleep forever. The world _had_ known nothing but heartache, and he was ready for his to stop. He was drenched. It was pouring. It was dark. He could see absolutely nothing. He didn't know where his motorcycle was, and he sure as hell didn't know where his keys were. His clothes stuck to him like a second skin. His skin was numb. His mind was numb. He was waiting. He had the patience of a saint. It often happened this way. He was going to make sure everything was taken care of this time.

He could feel it, and when he switched on his Eagle Vision, he could see it.

The pavement beneath his feet was almost reassuring.

His father would have no more grievances with him.

He would no longer hurt for killing Lucy.

No more visions plaguing him from the past.

No one's opinion of him would be able to reach his ears anymore.

He had hoped that he was something special, but those he knew well made it known that he was not, and that there were others with the high concentrations of First Civilization DNA. He was just another cog. Minerva's and Juno's messages were not meant for him, but for someone with similar DNA, and if the world needed saving there was another who could save it instead. He was not special: he was not an assassin. He had made his mind up that he never was and never would be. It was time for him to stop trying to be.

He offered a soft smile as he saw the lights, feeling the impact of the car.

He could hear the car screech to a stop, feeling the pain radiate throughout him. He could hear someone, far away, yelling at him above the sound of the rain. He could make someone out above him, and he smiled. It felt nice. Whoever this stranger was cared for him on his deathbed. He could see the person blink, surprised. He wasn't sure who lifted his hand to touch the person's lips, floating outside his body as the pain seemed a long ways off. He coughed, feeling something alarmingly warm dribbling out of his mouth. He couldn't quite make out the details of the person above him, but he exhaled shakily.

"T-thank-ks-s," he rasped, smiling warmly at the person. "D-ive a-awa-away."

He closed his eyes, letting darkness envelope him as he felt himself float off.

He jolted away in the dark, under a wide and dark night sky.

"Sh-shit," he heard whispered, and he turned his head to look toward the voice.

It sounded familiar. He should know it, but first he needed to figure out how he was alive. He remembered the pain. He remembered the rain and the person. He remembered the impact and the lights and the warmth trickling down his chin.

"W-wait," he rasped, reaching out when he heard the person move to run away. "P-please."

There was a pause in the rustling.

"Where am I?" he asked, sitting up unsteadily.

He turned when he heard someone emerge from the brush, and his eyes grew wide. He recognized that face. He recognized that stance. He knew those clothes, that backpack slung across those shoulders. He recognized that lack of scar, and as he looked around, his stomach sunk. He knew these lands.

"Black Hills," he breathed as the boy—himself—said it at the same time.

"Desmond Miles," he said. "Oh my God. You just ran away from the Farm, didn't you?"

He looked at the boy standing in front of him, who looked alarmed and all kinds of frightened. He looked at his own hands, then back to the kid, then back to his own hands. He was in his own past. He was going to rewrite his own past. He knew what lay in store for himself. He remembered everything. He could hear the boy dart, and he was on his feet in an instant, tackling himself to the ground despite the thrashing.

"Let me go!" the boy hollered, kicking and struggling like a pro.

"Shut up!" Desmond hissed, clamping a hand over his mouth. "Shut. Up!"

"Mmmph—"

"If you don't shut up, your father will find you, and he's going to be so damn angry you're going get thirty belts to the ass."

The boy fell still. He could hear the boy's heart tapping out a rapid pulse under his hand.

"And after those thirty whips, you're going to be run until your feet blister and your hands are raw. And that whole time, that pretty little blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl that dad—Bill—likes so much will stare at you with the saddest expression you've ever seen." He grunted, tightening his grip on the boy as he thrashed again. "You'll hate her for it 'cause William likes her so much. Likes all the kids with blonde hair and blue eyes, right? Every single," he hissed when a kick landed on his shin, "damn one. And you know why he does. You know, don't you? And then you'll return home, and your mother will turn a blind eye to the fucking abuse that you went through, like she always does, because no one has the mother-fucking balls," the boy thrashed harder: he was hitting a sore spot, "to stand up to that dick-headed bastard of a demon you called 'Dad.' He drills you harder than the rest. And as much as you loathe him for it, it's his own undoing. That's how you escaped. You're better than he thought you were—ever will think you are. So you ran away. And now you think you're in the home stretch, don't you? Well I've got a story for you, _kid_ , 'cause there's a pack of wolves roaming these parts, and they're waiting to tear you to shreds if you don't listen to me."

The boy stilled again, trembling in his grip. He could hear the boy swallow, and he removed his hand. The boy was still terrified, every muscle in his body tense, and Desmond knew that his feet were wrapped in rags and the ointment in his backpack was the only thing that would save his life. He knew that his ass was sore and raw. He knew that there were bruises on his arms from where William had grabbed him. He knew the hatred burning in the kid's veins. He's going to give himself a different ending: a better ending, even at the cost of his own life—oh, wait, haha.

"Wh—who are you?" the boy in his arms whispered.

He remembered that fear, and he let himself relax, letting the boy roll out of his hold and flip onto his butt. He pushed himself up, scowling, and looked at him from his hands and knees.

"I'm you. Twenty years from now and freshly back from the dead."

The boy frowned, looking him over closely. He knew the boy was drawing parallels between them, comparing the way they looked.

"Fine," the boy said. "What's in my backpack—"

"Ointment for your feet, which are bound in rags in those ratty sneakers of yours. Your father ran you ragged today because you were caught flirting with that pretty little blonde you've always liked. Aside from that, you've got your mother's necklace, wrapped up in a small piece of oiled rag that William uses to keep the leather on his belt fresh. You have your father's belt, which you're going to use as fire kindling when you finally camp down for the night, just before the wolves find you, and that oil there as well, just to spite him. You have an extra change of clothes: some ratty jeans with holes in them from the hand-me-downs you were forced to take from that huge-ass kid who loved to make you trip so that William would come down harder on you. You have a hankie from the blonde, who at one point used it to mop up the blood on the palms of your hands and let you keep it. That's when you fell in love with her. Get used to it: you'll always lose the blondes you love. You have a knife, a gun with a half-empty clip you'll waste in a panic, and a water bottle that's going to almost kill you with how tiny it is—"

"How did you get here?" the boy asked, looking completely and utterly spooked.

Desmond barked a laugh, pushing himself onto his ass. He shook his head, knowing that this was his second chance. He had to make the time count while he could. He had to change his future, and change it fast. His own backpack was missing. The woman had probably taken all the money he had stuffed in there just to make sure that the order didn't get their hands on it. He sneered, looking at the boy, who was still watching him warily.

"I got here through the very thing that will make your life hell later on in life. I'm here to guide you, kid, and give us a better future."

The boy frowned. "I dunno—"

"Here," he said, unzipping his hoodie and offering it out. "Put this on. Pull the hood over your eyes. Address me as father, and whatever you do, don't look up 'cause your eyes are gonna give you away quicker than a cat in a hen house."

His younger self looked confused, but Desmond knew what was coming.

"Hello? Who's there!" he heard in the familiar voice he had come to loathe so much.

He rose as he watched himself snatch the hoodie and pull it on, zipping it up and flipping the hood up as a flashlight appeared.

"Who are you?" he heard his father growl as he dusted himself off.

"Who I am is of absolutely no concern to you. Gotta problem with it?" he said, cracking his knuckles and meeting that terrifying gaze he had learned to stand up to.

William frowned, looking him over and apparently deciding against trying to intimidate him. The light slid over his younger self slowly.

"Your kid? You look awful young."

"Teenage pregnancy. Ever heard of it?" he said with a sneer, crossing his arms as his younger self tucked himself behind him "At least I love my boy. Best gift of my life."

He could hear the quiet snort his younger self gave as he felt a face press into his back to stifle the giggles. William's eyes narrowed, the grip on the flashlight tightening. He watched his back straighten and knew those signs. It happened only when William was getting irritated. Anyone who knew him would back down—but Desmond was through with giving into him. He would never know it was his own son that was going to be pissing him off.

"I'm glad to know you love your son so much," the man said through gritted teeth. "But my son is missing from his room."

"Really? Well la-de-fucking-da, man. Just how much did you abuse him to make him run away?"

He grinned triumphantly when those eyes narrowed dangerously.

"How old was he? Six? He's probably dead from the wolves around here."

"He's sixteen, and with those wolves here, he probably is dead."

"Oh, I dunno… a sixteen-year-old is a pretty smart kid. Particularly if he's been abused enough to run away from home."

He watched as those eyes flicked back over to his younger self, and he snarled. He knew William knew that Desmond was more than he seemed, but he could tell he didn't know _who_ he was. Just that he had some sort of information that he didn't quite understand how he got.

"Get the hell away from us unless you want a fight."

There was a tense silence, and Desmond sneered, refusing to break the stare of William's. Although if there was much more time with them standing here, there might not be a William for the future.

"Very well. Take care then," his father said as he turned on his heel and walked away.

He watched until William had vanished, then wheeled around and grabbed his younger self's shoulders, squatting to look him in the eye.

"We have about ten minutes to get the fuck out of here, which means that we need to leave now so we have plenty of time to kill those wolves if they attack us."

The boy nodded hurriedly, golden eyes wide, and Desmond turned around.

"Get on my back. You're not fast enough, and your feet will kill you. I'll clean them for you later."

The boy obeyed, and Desmond adjusted to the weight on his back before taking off running—passed the wolves and hearing the boy's squeak of fright. Used to running with this weight when he would carry a novice back to base as Ezio, he knew he could make it at least twenty miles thanks to all that Goddamn training. He was going to start training himself now, training himself better, making him learn those instincts that he lost his mind for originally. He had to tell him what to expect. He wasn't meant to be an assassin. He was going to protect himself. Someone else could save the world, the ungrateful bastards. If they all died, then they would all go down in a fiery blaze from hell, and he would laugh the whole damn time.

His feet found the pavement of Highway 131, and he took off running down it. He had to get through Grand Rapids, and head toward Indiana. They had to beat the snow and ice that would come in a few days. He had no money; the kid had no money. They could stay at the shelter. They could run to Kalamazoo, and he could steal a bike. He could take a bike, and they could get into Indiana, from there into Ohio, travel to the coast, forge a ticket onto a cruise liner over to Italy, and lie in wait for Clay.

Or, they could detour into New York, visit that final temple, steal the damn treasure, and save the world before it needed saving, then take down Abstergo completely and avoid getting Clay dragged into this mess as a whole. He pursed his lips, pacing his breathing as he ran through the streets of Grand Rapids. His younger self was holding on tightly, and eventually, twenty or so miles into his run, he stopped in the middle of fucking nowhere, heaving for breath and just about dying again. But they were safe for now.

The boy slid off his back slowly, frowning as he heaved and panted, sitting just off the edge of the road. He saw him sit in the corner of his eye. He rested his head between his legs, feeling, for all the world, like a fat man entered into a triathlon without any training. He swallowed huge mouthfuls of air, feeling the questions burning inside his younger self. He had a lot of answers to give the poor boy. He gasped loudly, taking the water bottle when offered and draining it all. It helped, and shortly after, he had caught his breath. They were good now.

"Just why are you here, and why are you doing this?"

Desmond heaved a wheezing laugh and shook his head, gesturing for the kid to follow him. He led him into the forest and started a fire, sitting down before looking at him, frowning. The boy was watching him closely.

"I'm doing this because if I don't, you're going to end up a smooshed bug on someone's car."

"What?"

He grimaced. "Look, kid, I'm you. I know that doesn't make any sense, but I'm going to show you things you'd have to wait ten years to find out. If I had let you on your own, you would have been ripped apart by the wolves, poisoned by the sun, hardly alive when you crawled into a shelter, use all your ointment on your feet and your infected wolf bites. You'd make it crawling to New York, dead into Manhattan, where you'd become a bartender. You'd pick up a motorcycle, and then you'd be kidnapped because of it. The people who kidnapped you would mentally torture you, the people you thought were your allies would do the same, and then you'd stab the woman you fell in love with, fall into an uncontrollable depression, and then be ridiculed by your father and your allies about being useless—even though you saved the mother fucking world."

The boy was watching him closely, frowning in clear disbelief.

"And it all sounds crazy, but that depression that you hide so well will eventually cause you to stand in the middle of blinding rain on the highway and _smile_ when you get hit by a car. _Smile_. You'll enjoy it. I'm here to save you from yourself and this fucked up world. I'll show you all the shit that could happen, and we'll save a couple billion lives in the process."

His younger self kept staring at him.

"All that crazy shit about conspiracy theories is bullshit, but your father's been holding out on you. Those enemies he talks about? Yeah. They're real. They're out to get you, and they're torturing your distant cousins as we speak. I'm going to make sure none of that happens. We're going to take them out, and you're going to live a great life."

He watched his younger self lean back on his hands, which made him wince. He met his gaze, staring at him and just praying his words would get through to him.

"I don't believe a word you're saying," the kid said, and Desmond deflated.

He shouldn't have bothered. He wasn't even sure the kid was sure he was him. He covered his face with his hands.

"But I believe that you're going to save me from the future I've signed myself up for."

"It's not the future _you_ chose," Desmond growled.

"Whatever. I'll trust that you'll guide me into a better future."

He paused, then rubbed a hand against his eyes as he looked at the kid, who was staring at him seriously. The fire crackled merrily, and he could hear the insects all around them in the cold night.

"Why?"

"Because I believe that we're the same person—and if _you're_ what I'm going to be, I'll jump on the wagon to change my future. You look like shit, dude, and you look like you're, like, fifty. Everything you say sounds absolutely batshit psycho."

Desmond couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips. He didn't remember himself being quite so awesome as a teen.

"And I don't think I like the idea of being poisoned by the sun, or torn apart by wolves, and you clearly know what you're doing, so I'll let you use your experience to get me through."

He couldn't stop the smile as the boy pulled out two cans of soup he had stolen. He remembered those quite clearly. With a chuckle, he took one of them and used the hidden blade to punch a hole in the top. The boy startled, staring at him wide-eyed. He opened a second hole and set it near the fire, holding his hand out for the other can. Apparently, he still had his hidden blade. At least the Fates had a sense of humor.

"Call me Des. We're going to be riding together for a while, and I know how to avoid all of our biggest problems."

The boy slowly handed over the second can, and he punched two holes into it, setting it beside the other. Des leaned back on his elbows, staring at the stars and sighing.

"I really do sound crazy, don't I?"

He didn't need to hear the spooked answer to know that he was.

"I was locked in the asylum for several years. Look, Desmond—you know how strange that sounds to say that?—I don't know how long I have here, or why I'm even given a second chance, but you're not going to like what I tell you."

"Then why tell me?"

"Knowledge is power, and power corrupts, and corruption is absolute. If I can be the one to give you the knowledge, I can guide your corruption and turn it into your greatest weapon. I'll teach you how to survive, how to fight, how to steal, lie, cheat, torture, murder, and live all in several days. I'm not an idiot, but I am crazy. I don't… if I'm given a second chance… I don't want to be driven to that point again."

There was silence for just a moment before he heard a quiet, "What point?"

He grimaced, looking at the boy before flopping on his back. "That soul-eating depression. Just when you think you've got everything going for you, it all gets taken away from you, and you're left wondering what you did wrong for so long. You're just… hollow. There's no life in you. Your mind is broken, and you're stuck in a dark cage with no way out. Your father thinks you're the scum of the earth for killing a golden child, the one man you fall in love with treats you like shit, your days at the bar become a forgotten memory lost under all the pain of the mental hell you've been through…"

The boy was silent, and Des stared at the stars. It had been forever since he had last seen stars through his own eyes. Nevertheless, he looked when Desmond came crawling over to him, frowning. He sure did frown a lot as a kid. They met gazes, and he swore he could see that depression already there, already eating away at him, and he realized with startling clarity that it was. He hadn't known it when he was younger, but it was there already, a slow-killing poison to rot out his bones and destroy his soul. He reached out, ignoring the suspicious look he got as he wrapped his arm around him and pulled him into a tight hug. He had been dying the whole time he had been on the run, and it took him twenty years and a second chance to realize it.

And then he started crying.

He could feel the boy tense in his arms as he cried, but he couldn't help it.

"I'm sorry," he rasped. "I'm so sorry."

He gritted his teeth, trying to pull himself together, and nearly choked on his own breath. Eventually, he felt a skinny set of arms come to rest against his chest, hugging him back and resting against his heaving chest as he cried. He finally stopped after several minutes, wiping his nose and his eyes on his sleeve when it's offered back. They sat up, and he took the bloody hankie that was offered, blowing his nose before shaking his head and throwing it to the side, laughing. He kept laughing, unable to help himself as it evolved into a manic, despaired sort of laugh. The boy at his side looked slightly spooked again, and he rubbed a hand across his eyes and forehead, rocking back and forth.

"Oh my God, we got dealt the shit end of the stick, didn't we? The abusive father, the shitty ending—Clay dies; Lucy dies; your father fucking lives; we go crazy; your best friend hates you—oh my God!" his voice is, perhaps, slightly higher pitched than it should be, but he can't help it. "We'll rewrite all of it, Desmond! We'll fucking destroy the timeline and rule this God-forsaken world. Fucking shit, I'll get avenged! Oh my God!"

He laughed for a while more before his face twisted into one of despaired pain, staring at the fire.

"I'm a fucking lunatic. I'm so sorry you had to find out the hard way, Desmond… This is your future if we can't change it."

He tore his gaze away from the flame with force, seeing himself, ten years younger, holding out a can of Campbell's chicken noodle soup. He blinked, staring at it before he found himself reaching out to grasp it. The metal burned in his hold, and for once he had never been happier to have the pain. The forest around them lent to a feeling of privacy, even with the stars shining through the gap above them. This clearing seemed to be all theirs.

"Here's to changing the future, then," the boy said, and Des looked at the boy, who was holding out his can in the form of a toast.

He knew the metal had to be burning his fingers, but he figured that he might not be able to feel it. He knew how raw his hands were, how accustomed to the pain he had become at that point. But for right now, it was just him and his sixteen-year-old self, out to change the future in a fucked-up sort of wild ride into Hell.

He clanked their cans together and took a sip of the broth, closing his eyes as he realized that this might just be the best thing that's ever happened to him. The liquid burned its way down his throat, and he felt calm.


	2. Chapter 2

They were silent for the rest of the food, and he eventually wandered off with the cans and the bottle to find water. He ended up finding a house—a lucky break. He picked the lock, snuck in, stole several water bottles, refilled theirs, grabbed a pair of soft shoes for his younger self to wear, and even snagged some food and medical supplies. Like a shadow, he left with their new goods in a new backpack. The house was nice, but he had more important things to worry about. He padded back to the small fire to see Desmond unwrapping his feet. They were blistered and raw, oozing puss and blood, and he couldn't stop the wince when he saw them.

"You remember it?"

He nodded, sitting down beside him. "I do. Where's your ointment?"

They said nothing more as he cleaned his feet, caked in dirt, applied the ointment, and wrapped them before putting on the soft, moccasin-like boots. He moved to the boy's hands and cleaned them, staring sadly at the raw palms and bloody welts as he bandaged him. He remembered the abuse. He remembered how no one came to his aid despite the obvious injuries.

Finally, Desmond spoke: "What was Bill like whenever you saw him for a second time after you ran away?"

Des shrugged in return. "He hadn't changed. He actually forced me to become crazier. Insisted on it. Then tore me to pieces in front of the entire order."

"What order?"

He inhaled as the boy crawled into his lap, and he wrapped his arms around him as if to protect him. Then, on his exhale, he told him all about the order, the Templars, the secret war, and what had actually happened to him.

By the time they were done, the rays of dawn were peeking over the edges of the trees. He had found a dense thicket of brush, showing the boy how to make a make-shift shelter as he spoke of the secret war and everything. They had snuffed out the fire, made themselves disappear, and then crawled into the small clearing in the thorn-laden thicket. As Des curled around himself, pulling the boy close and hearing his breathing even out quickly, he closed his eyes, exhaling gently. His skin was scratched and poked, but he had lent the boy his hoodie, and that was the important thing. He remembered the feeling of neglect and doubt, and he was going to start by loving himself. They could reach Kalamazoo tomorrow night, and he could carry him the other thirty miles. There was a nice homeless shelter there, and he remembered getting a warm meal and some more ointment for his wounds there.

He would right the wrongs of the past one by one.

He slept deeply that night, no nightmares, no night terrors, no nothing. Just deep darkness and peaceful rest. So, when he woke up to find his younger self shaking, he could easily wake enough to rub the boy's thigh, earning a fearful look.

"Don't worry, Desmond. The first night's always the shocker, waking up in some place that is _not_ your bed in some place that is _not_ your home. It's always frightening."

He watched the kid nod slowly, the boy in his arms turning around completely to press his face against his chest.

"I want mom," the boy whispered.

And he remembered that. He remembered the pain of not having his mother around to comfort him. It didn't matter that she willingly turned a blind eye to the abuse because she had comforted him when he needed it. He remembered the sensation of longing for his mother that had seemed to drip in over the course of his first night on the road, that hideous feeling of loneliness and wanting a companion even though it dawned on him that no one back at the Farm cared for him. If someone had truly cared, he wouldn't have run.

Perhaps he could replace his mother for his younger self. He knew what he wanted, the coddling and the love that he never got at home. He could love himself as conceited as that sounded. He could spoil himself with love and affection.

Anything to save himself pain later on.

He held the boy, feeling him tremble and saying nothing as he let the boy cry softly. He let him cling to him, feeling his tears soak through his thin tee shirt. They needed to get moving soon, to get to Kalamazoo soon, to get to Abstergo soon.

But as he heard the muffled sob into his chest, he decided there were more important matters at hand.

He would have to save his mother before she let herself die at the hands of the Templars. He softly shushed himself, rubbing his back and knowing exactly what he wanted. He knew what he wanted when he cried, a chest to sob against, a hand rubbing his back, and the other wrapped around him tightly to make himself feel loved. He remembered that feeling of isolation. He pulled himself closer, tighter, letting him cry as his song changed from "I miss mom" to "Why me?" until the boy had cried everything in his system and violent hiccups wracked his body, his nose dripping and his eyes puffy and red-rimmed. He offered a concerned look, not a smile because he would punch himself if he smiled, and used the edge of the hood to dry his eyes before pulling out the hankie from last night.

It was only semi-clean from washing it with a bottle of water, but it was still usable, and when they finally crawled out of the thorn bush, he could visibly see the relief in the boy's face. He remembered that look, that one that he saw in the mirror of the shelter after running away and he let himself cry. He remembered it, and his entire chest hurt with those memories.

"Sorry about that," Desmond muttered as he wiped his eyes and sat on his ass near where the fire was yesterday.

Des shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I'm just glad I could see you cry, instead of locking yourself up in a shelter and pulling out your hair."

"Is that what you did?"

He offered a shaky smile. "Yeah. I did. Had some nice bald spots on my head the next day."

Desmond looked at him, blinked, then laughed quietly, shaking his head. Des washed the hankie with another bottle of water, then squeezed the cloth out and tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie. The boy was still wearing it, but it was probably for the better with the hood covering his eyes for their travel. He looked at the boy, pulling out a protein bar and one of those small boxes of cereal. He didn't even know what he had grabbed, but despite the two water bottles wasted on the hankie, he still had the tiny water bottle Desmond had grabbed and two more bottles, with a box of protein bars, a mix of various cereal boxes, a couple of cans of various things, and even a box of macaroni.

Of course, he had no idea how they would make a box of macaroni on the run without milk and butter, but the noodles had to be worth something.

"Where did you get all that?" the kid asked with a frown, and Des looked up at him.

"I stole it from a house not too far from here last night. That's where I got those shoes, too."

The boy was quiet as he looked down at his feet. His frown deepened.

"You stole them?"

"If you're worried about that, just wait until you make your first kill."

The boy looked hilariously startled, and Des couldn't help but laugh.

"Come on, Desmond. I told you: I'm gonna teach you how to live on the streets."

He grabbed himself a protein bar and handed the kid the bag. Desmond looked at him suspiciously as he took it and put it on. Before he opened his breakfast, he turned around and crouched for Desmond to get on his back. He wasn't expecting a struggle to walk: he knew how bad his feet were hurting him.

"Kid, this is what you've been training for. Trust me: your father was preparing you to fight and kill."

"Yeah. I remember that from the training, but I was hoping I could have gotten out of it," the boy said as he shrugged on the backpack, rose shakily to his feet, and climbed without protest onto his back.

"You wouldn't. I'll shield you as much as I can, but it's inevitable. Especially when we go to Abstergo."

"They'll have guns, though," the boy muttered, holding on tightly.

That backpack weighed more than the boy it felt like. Of course, Des also remembered how skinny he was at the time he ran away. Just borderline malnourished, he had often thought. He started walking at a brisk pace, occasionally pausing to take a bite of the protein bar.

"We'll have something better."

"That mind-control thing?"

"Exactly."

"And you know how to use it?"

"Champ, I've murdered so many men with that thing. Ironically, to rescue our father. Not ironically, to kill the Abstergo goons with the guns."

It was quiet after that, all thoughts of Des's on reaching Kalamazoo, and the younger probably thinking about everything he'd learned over the course of the night. They reached the highway, and started walking.

By midnight, they were both sick of it.

By early, early morning, he could feel the younger getting itchy on top of his back, the only thing holding him back from walking the injuries on his feet, although Des could guess soon he'd ask to be let down and he would walk regardless. He himself was sick of walking along the road. His feet were rather sore, and he was still hungry. They hadn't stopped yet for "lunch," but Des was eager to get to New York as quick as possible to take care of that stupid final temple.

It was their lucky day when a car slowed down, the window rolled down, and Des's eyes were flooded with the color blue in the dark night just momentarily.

"Where you headed?" the man asked.

"New York," Des replied, feeling Desmond press his face against the back of his neck. "Or Kalamazoo first. Just gotta get away from Grand Rapids."

The woman on the inside smiled warmly. "Come on in! We'll give you a lift to Kalamazoo!"

"Are you sure this is safe?" the boy whispered, and Des nodded.

"We'll be safe, Desmond. I promise you I'll teach you your first trick once we hit Kalamazoo."

The boy was silent but slowly slid off his back. He grimaced at the look of pain when his feet hit the pavement, but Desmond hobbled to the door, clutching the backpack close as he slipped into the back of the sports car. Des slipped in beside him, relaxing into the seat.

"Thanks a million."

The car picked up speed again as the man laughed. "No problem. Why're you running away from Grand Rapids?"

"Abuse survivors," he muttered, wrapping his arm around Desmond when the boy leaned in.

The car was silent for a while before the woman looked back at them. They were friendly enough looking people, young like a freshly married couple. The woman was in a business suit, and the man in regular clothing. He wondered what a pretty young lady like her was doing in a business suit at early morning. Her makeup was done nicely, her strawberry blonde hair done in a tight bun. He vaguely wondered if she was a psychiatrist, then almost laughed at the idea of asking her for a session.

"Abuse?"

Younger Desmond showed her his bandaged hands, the bruises on his arms, and then took off his shoe to show her the bandages on his feet. Des grabbed the foot gently, just before Desmond could put it back in the shoe, and unbandaged it and the other foot, taking the backpack and reapplying the ointment and bandages. The gauze he had originally put on it was disgusting, soaked completely through with what little was left of the ointment and the pus from the blisters and raw skin. There was a laceration on the right foot on the side he had taken extra care around and an infected, stitched gash on the left from a stick that he had accidentally stepped on in one of the runs his father made him do. The ointment had seemed to help a little, some of the ugly coloring gone and the inflamed skin not quite as puffy. Yes, he remembered that miracle ointment. He carefully stuffed the disgusting gauze and bandages in the backpack, packaged in the box he had taken from the protein bars, then undid the bandages on the boy's hands to stuff them in there.

They were scabbing over nicely, and when the boy pulled them back after he unbandaged them, he nodded in compliance. He could respect the decision to let the wounds on his hands get some air. He tucked the moccasin-like shoes into the backpack and zipped it before leaning back. Desmond curled against him, and he slung his arm around his shoulders as they leaned together. Des's gaze slipped back to the woman who was watching them worried. He offered a soft smile to her.

"Don't worry. We're going to make it."

"Would you like a place to stay until that boy's feet star—"

"Isabel, we really don't have the room in our house," the man said.

"Julian, we really don't have a choice. That boy needs to stay off his feet!"

The man frowned, and Desmond frowned as well, tucking himself tighter against him.

"Really, ma'am," Des responded, reclining in the backseat, "we'll be okay if we can just make it to Kalamazoo."

"Don't listen to my husband. He's an idiot. We have plenty of room. If he gets sent to the doghouse, he just doesn't want to sleep on the couch. Your brother there needs to stay off his feet. I'm glad you ran away. What kind of father does that to his child?"

Des grinned like a shit, reclining as the woman turned around and pointed at her husband.

"I swear, if you do that to our children, I'm going to rip off your testicles and turn you into a sissy little slut I can sell for money."

The man sighed, and Des laughed, giving the boy a playful noogie. "See? There are people who care. Just no one we knew."

The boy swatted at him and pulled away, looking and frowning. "So, you're saying that we've been with the wrong people?"

Des winked. "Exactly. You'll find strangers are often nicer."

"You poor boy. How did he get away with all that?" the woman asked, looking at them again.

Desmond leaned against him, propping his feet up on the backseat and leaning against his older self.

"No one came to his help, and I was gone for a while with work," Des said. "But eventually I just turned in my resignation, took him, and ran."

"It's… nice," Desmond murmured, looking at his hands. "Knowing I'm not going to be run dead every time he catches me flirting."

"Or with a hand down your pants."

"Or mixing up instructions."

"Or accidentally stumbling during practices the day after he ripped you a new one."

"I remember that."

The woman shook her head, looking, perhaps, entirely too upset. "That's terrible."

Des shrugged. "That's why we're here now. Once he's all healed up, we're high-tailing it to New York, then over to Italy."

The lady sighed. "Yes, well, you're welcome to stay with us as long as you need to."

"Thanks, ma'am," they chorused together.

They were driven into Kalamazoo, the woman having turned in to her thoughts as the man opened the window. It was a pretty little house, a light blue and two-stories, a neighbor on either side and the porch looking inviting. The path to the front door was short enough Desmond demanded to walk by himself, although he could see the hesitancy in the boy's eyes. He helped Desmond out of the car, letting him walk slowly to the door as the woman hovered beside him. The man opened the house to them, and they were shown to a room. The woman said her husband would fix breakfast, that he didn't work and she was heading off to her office, and they could join him if they didn't want to sleep first. Apparently, the guy had gone off to a concert with friends, they got separated afterward, and he needed her to come get her.

He had never felt something so wonderful as a hot shower, and as he and Desmond settled down for the night, he just about melted into the mattress, hearing Desmond's sigh of utter contentment. The shower had been incredible, and even though he almost laughed at the filthy water that streamed down him and his younger self. Surprisingly, a shower had not been awkward between them, perhaps due to the fact that they were the same person, but younger Desmond was used to the commune showers and Des didn't have any qualms with bathing in front of another. He joked about it all the time when he and Shaun were forced to shower together to conserve both time and water in Monteriggioni. Come to think of it: he hadn't had a steaming hot shower since he was kidnapped. He felt incredibly relaxed and sleepy, and the light of morning was just beginning to peek through the window, and they were finally safe in a house, curled up in a warm bed. The comforter was fluffy and warm; the sheets, clean and crisp, and the bed itself was soft and not at all like the cots in the asylum and on the run. And the pillows were down, down pillows in the most comfortable bed of his life. After two years in an asylum, this felt like Heaven.

"Hey, Des?"

He lifted his arm as the boy turned over to stare at him. The serious look in the boy's eyes made him quirk an eyebrow.

"Yeah? What is it, little man?"

He laughed at the scowl that got him. He knew though, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was just partially a façade and that Desmond was actually a little happier with a nickname, something he had always considered a symbol of being cared about. Still, when that scowl turned back into a frown, he swore he saw a hint of excitement in those haunting golden eyes.

"I was curious."

"About what?"

"Well," the boy began, licking his lips and nestling down, those eyes boring holes into his own as he pursed his lips into a frown vaguely familiar of his father's. He blinked, shaking himself quickly of the thoughts. "I started thinking, and you must know yourself—us—pretty well by now, and… well, no. Never mind. Nothing. Sorry. What was that trick you told me you were going to show me?"

Des blinked at the sudden change in thoughts. He studied the kid for a minute, then shrugged it off when the kid refused to budge.

"It's called Eagle Vision. We're going to have to work on it, but I bet you can do it. It's there, resting and waiting."

Desmond quirked an eyebrow, just before yawning. "What's it do?"

"It lets you tell enemies from allies, targets from trash."

"That… sounds really… useful."

"It's cooler once you can actually use it: I promise."

"Are you sure?"

"Trust me."

Desmond snorted. "You're fucking batshit."

Des grinned, throwing an arm over his younger self's side. The kid jerked to pull away, and he let him, watched him roll over to the other side of the bed and scowl at him.

"That's gay, man."

"That a problem?" Des said waggling his eyebrows in the most ludicrous way possible.

Silence. "What?"

"Is that a problem?"

Desmond blinked, staring at him with wide eyes and a mildly stunned expression. He winked at the kid.

"I'm telling you: anal is wicked if you get a good partner."

He wasn't going to lie and say that didn't remember Altaïr and Malik's nights together, or, for that matter, the crush he had developed on Leonardo himself, or the not-so-subtle pining after Shaun, or the few one-night stands he didn't have with a woman.

"Soft curves are nice and all, but sometimes what you really need is a good, hard dick up your—"

"Shut! Up! Oh my God! I-I don't! Ew! What the hell, man! What the actual hell!"

He laughed at Desmond's horrified expression as if he had just told him he'd be fucking his mother later on in life. He looked absolutely disgusted and a little bit mortified; although, Des noted as the kid calmed down, he thought he saw something akin to morbid curiosity there.

"Seriously?" Desmond asked, looking at him with his lip twisted as if he were the sickest thing ever.

Des grinned like a shit and winked. "I swear, man. You wanna know all the dirty little secrets about yourself? I can tell you."

Desmond's nose wrinkled, and he pulled back slightly. "You are so fucking strange."

"I'm also twenty years out of my time."

Desmond rolled his eyes, flipped over to give him his back, and muttered, "Christ, you're an old man."

Des snorted, grinned, and settled on his stomach instead of grabbing Desmond and putting him in a headlock. "I am _not_ old, pipsqueak!"

Desmond squawked, turning around to face him and scowl. "I am _not_ a pipsqueak, you dinosaur!"

He grinned, looking at him. "Rawr, man."

The kid frowned, his eyebrows scrunching together. Des simply closed his eyes. There was silence for a little bit before he heard, "So, how do you do the Eagle Vision?"

 _Well,_ he thought, _this was going to be interesting._


	3. Chapter 3

It turned out that trying to instill in someone a skill that just happened naturally was not easy. He tried everything, trying to tell him it was like flipping a switch, and that he just had to hit the switch right to get it to flip on. He showed him how his eyes changed, described what it looked like, lured and tried to bait him, until the husband hollered up, and he dragged himself out of the bed to go get food, since he wasn't going to be relaxing any time soon. The kid followed him dutifully out, trying with all his might to get his eyes to change, to feel that switch flip on, and as they collapsed at the table, the husband was nice enough to serve them.

"You two look like you've been hit by a train."

"I feel like it," Des groused. "Try… try concentrating on changing the way you look at things, not the way they look."

"What the hell does that mean?" Desmond snapped.

Oh, buddy, they were getting tired. And when they got tired, they got cranky. This was not going to end well. Des sighed, frustrated as a plate of pancakes and sausage links dropped in front of him.

"Eat up. She told me to make everything we had, so I hope you have large appetites."

Des grinned. "You have no idea."

And halfway through his sixth pancake, which was wrapped around four small sausage links, he noticed Desmond sitting up straighter in his chair, the pancake bite smothered in syrup loose in his hand as he looked around. He put down his fork and stared at the kid, quirking an eyebrow and watching him look around slowly.

"Hey, Des…"

"You did it?"

"I think… I found the right switch."

"And?"

"You're blue, and so is the man."

"Excellent."

"Should I ask?"

"No," Des said, looking at the husband with a soft smile, noticing the suspicious look. "It's a mental game we play sometimes." He laughed. "It helps us stay sharp."

The husband quirked an eyebrow, his posture screaming that he was prepared to kill them (as if he could), and Des took his chance to chance the subject. "You know, this syrup bottle doesn't have a label. Am I crazy? Or is this homemade?"

The man blinked. "It's homemade—not by us, though."

"Who made it?" Des inquired, picking up the bottle and examining it in half-hearted interest.

"My mother-in-law. Her husband makes it," the man replied, slowly relaxing. "We go up there once a year to help."

"Really?" he commented thoughtlessly, trying to keep the conversation going. "We've never done something like that."

"Aye, don't let it fool you: it's hard work."

Des gave him a charming grin, well, as charming as it could be. He really needed a shave. "Pish. We're used to it, aren't we?"

He glanced at Desmond, whose eyes were still golden, the pupils blown wide as he looked around with the Eagle Vision. The boy scowled but nodded. The raw and blistered skin on his hands was testament to that. Des looked back at the man with the grin still plastered there. Julian—at least, that's what he thought his name was—shook his head.

"You're welcome to stay here as long as you need to. Will you need a razor?"

Des nodded. "Yeah, please. I don't want to keep the scruff."

Julian helped himself to another pancake as Desmond finished off the rest of his and the last sausage link.

"I think you look good with it," Desmond murmured, and Des snorted.

He could feel the bleeding effect tugging at his mind, like a kid pulling on a string on his hand-knitted sweater. He had to clamp down on it. It was already relatively easy to ignore, what with his death and the running away again from the Farm.

"It's got some unpleasant memories with it," Des said, frowning, before shrugging and finishing his food. Time to change the subject. "What's the best way to get to Italy? Would you suggest plane or ship? Which is cheaper?"

The man pursed his lips. "You have family over there?"

"I suppose you could say that," Des said with a laugh. "There's a company over there I need to visit, since, you know, I resigned to run away with my brother here."

"And you're traveling all the way to Italy?"

"Abstergo is the mother company of the one I used to work for. Bossman said he'd let them know I was on my way."

"He seems rather compliant with what you were doing," Julian said skeptically.

"He's a good man," Des stated, leaning back in the chair and smiling warmly. "While I'm thinking of good men, is there anything we can do while we're here to help you out? I'll feel terrible just sitting here and using up your things."

The man looked impressed, his gaze sliding between them. "Unless you're good at cleaning…"

"Consider it done," Des said, nodding. "It's the least we—I—can do."

"Hey, I can clean too—"

"Isabel will kill me if I have you doing anything until your hands and feet are healed," the man said, frowning. "I'd rather keep living."

Darkly, under his breath, Des muttered, "Trust me: I'd give you my life in exchange for death in a heartbeat."

Desmond gave him an incredulous look but said nothing.

Shortly after that, they were finally done, and the man dismissed them to let them go. Des trudged up the stairs, feeling utterly exhausted. He could feel Desmond climb in beside him after a few seconds, nuzzling into his arms and technically spooning with him as he felt his younger self's breath even out. It was nice to have a body beside his even if it was himself, and it felt nice to know that there was someone banking on him protecting him. That someone would be grateful.

He didn't wake up for over twenty hours, eventually stirring to the feeling of someone rather large sitting on his back. He could feel butt bones digging into his spine, and he curled his lip as he unfolded his arms from under the pillow under his head and planted one on either side of his shoulders to push himself up.

"Finally. I thought you were dead."

He blinked, pushed up halfway as he registered it coming from his back. He frowned, looking over his shoulder and seeing his younger self sitting on his back. The boy was way too skinny if Des didn't even register him that much. He hadn't registered anything other than the bones of his butt digging into his back.

"Shit, kid, you're as skinny as a rail. We gotta fatten you up."

"Blah, blah, blah. Get up, lazyass. You've got chores to do today."

Des grunted, pushing up as Desmond got off, rolling onto the bed. Eventually, Des showered, dressed, and walked downstairs, asking a few minor questions about how to clean, and set about doing just that. Desmond followed him around for the better part of it, not asking questions like he expected, just watching, flipping through the channels of the TV, or chattering quietly with Julian in the other room. He worked diligently, greeting Isabel when she came home. Isabel looked surprised to see him cleaning but thanked him and went to say hello to her husband.

It continued like this for a few days, patching up the roof right before it snowed again, fixing various things with skills he had picked up in the past lives, until Des decided that they were wasting time, and they really needed to get moving to New York to get to Italy.

Or maybe they would skip Italy and go straight to the temple and finish everything up. He could get Desmond to finish things overseas. That would probably be the best option. He could have him contact Lucy before she became a mole, have her get Clay out beforehand. They could finish things up. They could get things moving. Everything would work, even if Clay didn't know what he knew from their last lives.

That would be their course of action, he decided at the table in the middle of dinner. That, and they seriously needed to get out of here before either the Templars or, worse, his father found them.

"Are you okay? You haven't been that talkative tonight," Isabel said, setting down her fork and looking at him, concerned.

Des met her gaze, frowning as he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. He looked at Desmond. "We leave tomorrow. I'll steal some cash or something, and we'll stock up on supplies. We've got to go to New York."

"New York? What of Italy?" Julian asked, scowling.

Des stared at him, hard, the kind of stare he _knew_ projected "There's so much more going on that you've probably figured out, but I'm not telling you, so don't ask." "We've got other business to take care of. More familial drama that needs to be stopped before it gets bad."

Desmond raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing, eating quietly.

"You don't have to steal anything," Isabel said, leaning forward. "We'll give you the money you nee—"

"Isabel," Julian said, exasperated, "we've sheltered complete strangers for almost a week now, and now we're funding their wild expeditions to other states? We should be encouraging him to find a job here and—"

"Their family is more important," Isabel said firmly. "Besides, we can afford it."

Des finished his meal quickly, then rose and said, "There's no need to, ma'am. We can handle it. My brother needs to learn how to protect himself, and this is something that no amount of ignoring and settling down will fix."

He smiled warmly as Isabel protested, and he excused himself from the table. He paced upstairs and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. There were too many things that could go wrong. He supposed it would be best to kill himself at the temple first, save the world, make Clay's warning obsolete and send Desmond after Lucy and Clay himself. The kid was smart enough he could do that. But that caused problems because he knew that they needed both an Apple and the necklace to get into the Temple. Decisions, decisions. He didn't want to go to Italy to retrieve an Apple, but maybe there was one nearby.

Desmond eventually came into the room, peeking in.

"Hey, are you okay?"

He looked at boy, pursing his lips before sighing. "No, not really."

"So what are you planning, anyway?"

He watched the boy come over, watched him sit down, watched him lay beside him.

"I'm thinking about my plans for you, and how I hope they're better than anticipated."

"What do you mean?"

He sighed, closing his eyes, and began to explain to him how they were going to go to New York. They would find the key, find an Apple, and then open the temple. Afterward, Desmond would be in charge of finding Lucy and Clay and keeping Clay alive. Keep his long-distant cousins alive and out of Abstergo's hands. He paused, thinking about where to get the Apple. They'd have to get to Italy anyway to get the Apple. Then, he remembered the map that was burned into his memory. The map from the Apple, from the codex pages. He snapped into a sitting position.

"Uh, Des?"

He ignored him and remembered: there was a dot in the D.C. area. D.C. meant the White House. The White House had a POE, and if they could get their hands on it…

He grinned, looking over at Desmond, who pulled back in alarm. He could feel the look grow on his face.

"So, kid, what do you say to robbing the White House?"

A pause.

"What?"

There would be an Apple in the White House. With all the activity around from Connor's time, the Templars must have known—even if Haytham had no idea. They must have sent the Apple over here in an attempt to find the cave and left it in the White House for safeguarding after it was build, because, well, the White House would have been the obvious choice. There was a dot on Fort Ticonderoga as well, wasn't there? The assassins wouldn't have touched it, and the Templars would have hidden it.

"The White House. Let's rob it."

A heartbeat. "You're fucking with me."

"Nope," he said, his grin turning from dark to genuine. "We rob the White House and make off with the treasure we need. We retrieve the key, and then we high-tail to the temple. I kill myself, you collect the other pieces—"

"Woah, _what?_ " the younger man asked, his eyes wide with surprise.

Des nodded eagerly. "Yup. I'll kill myself to make sure that the earth doesn't go up in flames, and then you're going to fetch the other Pieces of Eden with help from the Apple that we'll get from the White House, and then you'll take down Juno and Abstergo."

Desmond stared at him as if he were crazy. Oh, wait, he reflected: he _was._ He looked at the boy, feeling bright and eager for once, and grinned at him.

"Well? Are you in?"

There was silence for a while, and he stared at Desmond, who was staring right back, scrutinizing him as if to call for bullshit. He squirmed under the gaze. This would be their ticket to the best ending possible aside from it never happening at all.

"Are you serious?"

Des blinked, the smile falling away into something more of disappointment. "What?"

"I…" the boy hesitated, looking away. "I haven't even killed someone—and my skills are a long ways away from the black spooks that haunt the White House lawn according to the news."

Des grinned again. Desmond caught one glance of that look and frowned.

"Okay, what are you not telling me?"


	4. Chapter 4

Des laughed, throwing his head back and just letting it out. Oh, this would go swimmingly. When his laughter subsided, he looked at Desmond, his eyes twinkling with amusement and pleased with himself.

"I'm not leaving out anything," he said cheerfully. " _Everything_ works out for the people in our bloodline."

"Says the man who smiled as he was hit by a car."

He grinned. "The Pieces of Eden watch out for us, kiddo."

"Says the man who got killed a million years ago. In the future."

He laughed, flopping back down the bed, feeling markedly more at ease now that that problem was solved. Perhaps his crazy was showing again, but he felt so _good_ about the future for once that he was content just to lay there and feel the happiness in his bones. Maybe this was why he was given a second chance—because he would take the second chance, and he would make it happen. He would save himself, and he would have a good ending. His suffering would never have happened, and Those Who Came Before acknowledged it. Maybe—he had to be crazy. Absolutely mad. Still, he thought, exhaling.

"We aren't most people, Desmond," he said in a soft breath as he closed his eyes. "We are the chosen one."

"You sound so stupid," Desmond said, and Des grinned, cracking open an eye.

"Yeah, but you're the one following me."

Desmond blinked, then scowled and jumped on him. He caught him, laughing, managing to get the boy in a headlock before the boy growled.

"You _have_ to teach me how to fight like you."

"Don't worry, kiddo. I will. Once we get the Apple, I'll spend a few years training you for the worst of it."

Desmond quirked an eyebrow. "We're not saving your ancestors?"

"Your survival in the dungeons of the POEs is more important."

"Poes?"

"P.O.E.s. Pieces of Eden. I just say 'poes' 'cause it's easier than spelling it out every time."

"Lazy bastard."

"Only for you, Desmond."

Desmond snorted, and Des let him go.

The next morning, they waved goodbye to Isabel and Julian, Isabel looking worried and Julian looking suspicious. He told them about his father, about how if anyone asked if they had been there, go ahead and tell them the direction they had gone in because he didn't want them to be injured. They could handle the plans—tell them they were going to New York. Their lives weren't worth the needless torturing. They didn't even know his true plans.

They walked along to Highway 94, making slow headway going southeast off the paved roads, until they hit Indiana, following Highway 80 through the corner of Indiana until they hit the border of Ohio, catching a ride for the some long amount of time through the Ohio Turnpike until they hit Toledo. Here they parted ways from the teens that had given them the ride, and Desmond got his first few lessons in pickpocketing. It turned out that the boy was a natural, that his training on the Farm had done quite a bit for them, and they spent the next month roaming Toledo, the poor denizens having their money robbed from them easily, saving enough to buy food and purchase a small motel room instead of staying at a shelter after the first week or so.

He taught the boy how to fight in the courtyard behind the motel, and while the boy had some skill, he still didn't have enough. Nevertheless, he picked up the fighting easy, and Des had never had so much fun teaching someone. It was one thing teaching a novice in the Animus—it was another watching himself puff with pride as he threw out compliments on how well he was taking to the life of theft and murder. After a month in Toledo, he crowed with delight when Desmond made his first kill using the knife, when they had been cornered by a few of the assassins Des recognized from later on in the order under William's command. With a twisted grin, he slew all but one and forced the other onto his knees, patiently waiting for Desmond to slit his throat while Des gleefully told him all about what was going on. He knew the man had a radio communicator on him hooked up and someone, somewhere, was listening to his crazy story. The White House would probably be on alert, but it didn't matter.

Still, Des had picked up the boy and kissed his forehead in awe after watching him make his first kill, praising him thoroughly when the boy had looked the man in the eye and then slit his throat. He had never seen such cold, cruel determination—and the shock value was still less than _his_ first kill in the Animus. He had bent over the corpse and murmured into the communicator when he found it.

"Hey, old man, it's your son, Des, the one you ran into after you discovered your boy ran away. I know it doesn't make sense right now. Just wanted to let you know you're a dick, and that I'm never going to forgive you. You've squandered a beautiful opportunity, and I'm going to throw it all in your face. By the way, keep an eye out for Abstergo goons. They'll come for you and mom eventually, but I don't know the exact time. It's within ten years, but that's about the best I can tell you. If mom dies, I'm skinning you and making myself a coat."

It was after that he wrapped an arm around Desmond's shoulders, took him out the back alley because they were covered with blood, and stole a motorcycle. They made it through Cleveland after stealing clean clothes (he had to scrub his hoodie: Desmond refused to let it go), then into Pittsburgh where they dallied about for another month, racking up the bounties on their heads. Des nearly burst with glee when Desmond _joined in_ the next attack, this time a group of Templars, whereupon he left a message in one of the goon's blood on the wall, telling Vidic to _watch out_ because he was coming for him, and this was just the beginning of their war.

The news the next day had been hilarious, and they had skipped town. They reached Hagerstown, MD, without a problem, and all the way into the Hay-Adams Hotel in D.C. easily. They weren't attacked again, but Des had kept a close eye out. He was certain both the Templars and the Assassins knew who he was, but the public media, bless them, had kept it all covered. They spent a few days in DC, where Des earned some extra cash giving detailed and vivid tours of the area (having spent so much time living through so much of the early and later history without help from the Animus). Desmond seemed to enjoy himself, and Des sent the boy out on pick pocketing missions, pushing him harder, training him longer, praising that determined look in his eye.

Then, on the night that Des planned to rob the White House, Desmond was ready to go, thrumming with pent-up energy to show him how well he had learned what he had been taught. They snuck onto the lawn, both of them careful with the Eagle Vision, until they came across one of the men. Without hesitation, Des killed him, swapped outfits and took his weapons, and then kept going, throwing the body into a hiding spot before pulling the boy along. They left a relatively clean trail behind them, slowly making it into the White House despite all the problems they thought they were going to have.

The White House was practically deserted, and Desmond noticed that the men they should have had to kill or avoid were, instead, making routes for easy passing. Someone knew they were there. It made the elder jumpy, made paranoia creep up his spine until they made it down to the basement, and both of them could feel the hum of an Apple deep in their veins. It was a soothing call, soothing, yet invigorating. He would never feel anything like the call of the POEs. He hoped that Desmond remembered the feeling, too. They meandered through the building until they found president standing in front of their target, back to them.

"I don't suppose I can convince you not to kill me."

"We're not after your blood," Des said as the man turned around. "You know exactly what we're after."

"I can't let you have it."

"From Assassin to Assassin, you'd—" he broke off at the surprisingly serious look the president was giving them.

"I had heard from the contacts that there was a pair of rogue assassins on the loose. I didn't know they meant _Assassins_ ," he had stressed, and Des laughed quietly.

"Is that why we had no problems getting in?"

"I wasn't gonna waste valuable men against assassins who were good at what they were doing. I've seen your track record _and_ your notes."

Des shrugged. "Still, I need that Apple to get into the Temple, pops."

"We can't let you do that," came the resounding voice, and Des stiffened, looking into the shadows to see his father standing there, emerging with a small group of assassins.

"Just who _are_ you?" his father asked, and both the president and his father looked mildly worried.

Des sneered, giving his father an "I'm better than you" look as his younger self stepped closer to him, fisting a hand in the back of the Secret Service tactical vest he was wearing.

"I am…" he trailed off, looking contemplative. "I am the Levantine Brotherhood's Mentor by the name of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad," he started. "I am the Italian Brotherhood's Mentor by the name of Ezio Auditore da Firenze." Desmond gasped as the Apple lit up. "I am the Native American assassin of the Kanien'kehá:ka by the names of Ratonhnhaké:ton and Connor Kenway." He scowled. "I am Desmond Miles, the sacrificial lamb of Those Who Came Before, and I am not going to let you take away my opportunity for happiness," he snarled, crouching into an offensive stance, catching both of the older men off-guard.

William was immediately on guard with his little army of assassins, but the president looked behind him, studying the Apple as it glowed. His father would recognize those names he had spoken. They were legends among their history.

"I am the sole heir to the power of the Pieces of Eden. I have killed men who have looked in the face of gods and lived, and I have shaped this nation from its beginning— _I dare you to stop me_ ," he growled, and he could feel the energy of the Apple filling him, poured out of him, watched his father back up a step, watched the president stepped aside.

When he stepped forward to claim the Apple, one of William's lackeys attacked.

Des was pleased to see his younger self carving the man up easily, snarling. The boy's eyes were shining gold, and he figured it was the whisper of the power from the Apple, from the energy they were both drawing strength. Des grabbed it, clasping it tightly as the golden glow filled the room in a brilliant flash before it vanished completely. He eyed them both cautiously as he tested the weight of the Apple in his hand before the image of Juno appeared, smiling.

"Hello Desmond."

His younger self stiffened, but Des just grunted. "Are you happy now? I'm here to do your bidding."

Juno laughed. "Ever one for our purposes. You are the right choice."

Des sneered. "Oh, don't get your hopes up. I know exactly what's coming, you wicked bitch, and I'll have you know I'm correcting it right now."

Juno laughed again, sounding completely worry-free and happy. "Good. Then you know where the key to the Temple is?"

"Unfortunately. Go away, Juno. I don't want to see you."

"You wound me."

"I'd shank you if I could, sweetheart," he said with a wonderful sneer.

"Be careful: your time is limited now."

"What does that mean?"

Juno's image gestured to his hands as she vanished. He wondered if she had been about to tell him another of the messages that had littered his past and his future. Nevertheless, he looked to Desmond, who was still in shock. The boy blinked, and Des smiled. He would check his hands later. The boy looked hesitant.

"Ready? Almost there."

He sighed when the doors flew open and the Secret Service poured in. Without a second of hesitation, he clasped the Apple firmly and held it up to shoulder height, feeling the power fill him, knowing that Bush and his father were trapped in the Apple's spell.

"Stand down," he growled, and he watched as the guns that had been pointed at them were lowered. "Drop the weapons." They clattered on the ground. "On your knees," he hissed, then, "hands behind your head."

He stepped forward, wrapping his arm around his younger self, walking him out. Before they left the room, Des turned and looked at his father, seeing the horrified expression and offering a mocking smile.

"Are you proud of your son, yet, _dad_?"


	5. Chapter 5

As soon as they were out of the White House, Des had them peeling out the D.C. and speeding toward the Davenport homestead, using the Apple viciously and watching the cops drop as they sped along, no longer bothering to preserve life as they eventually made their way to the grave to dig up the key. He kept the boy going, pushing him until they had the key, and then whisking him off, away from the grave. He wished he could project more of anger, more of tension, but all he had was jittery nervousness. It rankled him, had him twitching at every noise. He wasn't sure what Juno had meant by "his time was limited now," but he wasn't going to let it affect him. Not yet. They had to keep going.

He decided that he wasn't going to die yet as he dug up the small necklace, letting Desmond do a perimeter check. The boy had been markedly quiet, watching him, worry etched into his features. It was then he noticed, sifting through the dirt of the grave, there was something off about his hands. He paused, holding them up. His lips twitched downward. They seemed a little less tan to him—more… see-through? He brushed it off as a figment of his imagination and kept going.

With the key around his neck and the Apple in their possession, he kept Desmond on the move, eventually ending up settled in Mexico, deep in its heartland. It was here, and only here, that he finally stopped pushing his younger self, and as they settled into their third night in a hotel, he sat down on the bed in their room, next to himself, staring his younger self in the eye. He had picked up a pair of gloves to wear, black leather ones, but he didn't mention why to the boy. He didn't want to worry him yet.

"I'm sorry. For dragging you into this," he said quickly. The boy had, remarkably, been quiet the whole wild week. Perhaps a little terrified of the crazy man wielding the Apple, but it didn't matter now. "I'm sorry for making you deal with all this and pushing you so hard this past week. I am. I really am."

His younger self watched him cautiously. Des took the Apple out of their stuff and offered it out.

"If you want to play with it, you can."

Desmond looked at it, regarded it with suspicion, then pulled back, shaking his head. Des chuckled softly, shaking his head. He placed the Apple by his side then placed his head in his hands.

"I know that I've turned you into a thief and a murderer, and I'm sorry that you—"

"Shut up," Desmond snapped, and Des closed his mouth, letting his head hang. "Shut up 'cause I don't want to hear it."

He braced himself for whatever was coming next, death, rejection, or fear he didn't know. He paused when he felt a set of arms wrap around him, trembling strong arms, and opened his mouth to speak, only to find no words would come out.

"I don't want to hear it. I know things are different now. I know that," the boy said, and Des managed to worm an arm free, lifting it up to stare at the boy tucked against his side. He couldn't believe he looked that young, that _terrified_. "I know that I can't go back to the Farm. I know that this is going to be the hardest time of our lives, but…" Des placed his arm around Desmond as the boy continued to talk. "I'm grateful for everything we've done. Seeing that… thing… I know you're telling the truth. I've thought about what you said. If _this_ is the better of the two endings…" He met Desmond's gaze. "I'm just glad I've got you to help me out. I don't even want to know what your life was like if this is the good ending."

Des couldn't help the soft smile. Perhaps it was better, his selfish decision to keep living. They may be in Mexico; they may not be able to leave there, but maybe this was for the better. He rested his chin on the kid's head, his fingers curling and making him wonder about what Juno said momentarily.

"I'm sorry, Desmond."

Desmond laughed, and Des could feel something inside of him unwind at the sound. "Don't be, old man. We've still got all our life in front of us."

Des let a grin split his face, mirroring the one on his younger self.

"We've got all our life in front of us, and you're crazy enough that everything seems to work, so let's go for broke and have a party. We're in Mexico; we've got the glowy crazy thing; no one knows who we are—we're in a good position for having nothing but borrowed time!"

Des laughed, feeling the rest of his worry and anger melt away. He should have known not to worry. Borrowed time.

"Right then," Des said, cracking a cheeky grin. "Allow me to teach you all about partying."

He came to realize then that living in the middle of nowhere in Mexico was one of his best decisions. He got to take his time and teach Desmond everything, showing him the skills he had picked up across the four, five, however many lifetimes he had had by now. He adopted Spanish easily, taught Desmond Arabic and Italian easily. The boy picked up his trade with remarkable ease, and Des had never been so proud as to watch him grow into his hoodie. It made him feel as if he had done the right thing.

And at night, under the dim lights of wherever they were staying, he would take off his gloves and look at his hands. Desmond never questioned the gloves, never questioned the fact that he started wearing long sleeves in Mexico. Des was a little alarmed that he was starting to _disappear_ , just _fade_ , as if he had never existed. It was slow, painfully gradual, but he never noticed it unless he undressed. Long pants, long sleeves, and gloves managed to keep the worst of it at bay. Then again, Desmond was a smart kid. He had probably picked up on the "limited time now" and figured it out for himself.

It probably didn't help that they picked up their own contracts for assassinations—some of which from the Mexican Government themselves, though the drug lords (much to Des's amusement) kept trying to buy them permanently. Personal assassins, and by the end of the six years, the pair were sitting on fat wallets, even if they didn't buy a house, bouncing around from hotel to hotel. They kept an eye out for true Assassins or even the Templars, but they were never bothered. And both continued to get better at the trade.

"Des?" his younger self had asked one night after a successful kill as they lounged in one of the drug lords' mansions, and Des was cleaning his hidden blade. Desmond had one as well, a customized gift as a personal bid to get them to stay. Though they never stuck with one drug lord, they actively avoided doing harm to the man's trade.

"Yeah, little man?" he asked, not looking up.

"You're disappearing."

Desmond paused, blinking once, slowly, then straightened and looked at his younger self, who was frowning at him.

"Is it because of Juno?"

He frowned, and was silent. "When did you—"

"A while ago. I just never wanted to mention it 'cause I didn't know… I don't want…"

"You won't lose me. Not yet. We're a stubborn bastard, and I'll make sure that we see this through."

" _You're_ see through, though. The lines of your neck are a little blurred, and I know your arms are see through. You're fading."

Des set down his hidden blade and rose, walking over to Desmond and sitting beside him.

"How long?"

"It started after Juno mentioned I was living on borrowed time."

"When will you…?"

Des leaned in, kissing his head gently. "I won't go anywhere until we set you up to live, but the further we stray from the past I was supposed to have, the worst this is going to get."

Desmond was silent, staring at him seriously. Des kept his gaze countered with a worried look. His younger self sat up and hugged him.

"I don't want you to go."

He hugged him back. They said nothing more that night, though Des started trying to figure out a way that Desmond wouldn't be left alone when he finally faded out completely.


	6. Chapter 6

Nevertheless, it wasn't until Des realized that Clay had grown up and made it into college that he realized the answer to the problem. As much as he didn't want to, he needed to finish setting up. Time was ticking away from them he could see through his arms completely, his torso was vanishing, and he used makeup to hide his vanishing neck and face. He had waited until Clay was older subconsciously. As much as he would rather continue living in Mexico with Desmond, they still had business they needed to finish. And Clay would make a fitting companion. Remarkably, when Des sat Desmond down ( _Jesús Cristo!_ They looked like twins) to talk to him, the boy merely nodded in agreement, smiled, and told him he would look forward to meeting Clay. Neither mentioned anything about his vanishing. Neither wanted to think about it.

They actively avoided the topic of what they were doing next, only glancing at it with small comments, instead packing the possessions they had gotten, contacting their favorite employer, and sneaking across the border without much of a fuss. They hijacked a car and went off. It was time to pay Clay a visit before William could contact him. Des was having problems feeling the wheel beneath his almost-gone fingers highlighted only by the gloves. It was almost painful.

Des remembered listening to Clay rant about his college in the Animus, knew where he was going, and he had never had so much fun on a trip to school. Desmond seemed to be having a good time as well, and every time he looked at him, he couldn't help but wistfully wish that he looked like that—that the wrinkles in his face weren't there from stress, that the tired look accumulated from all his lives was gone, that he wasn't dying _again_. It was looking into a happier version of himself. When they finally made it to campus, they had to ask around a bit, fending off a few of the ladies who seemed eager to get to know the strangers, but they eventually stumbled into the male dorm, finding their way up to Clay's room.

"Okay," Des said, glancing back at the strong young man behind him, looking at all six years of the training he had put him under and smiling. Desmond smiled back sadly. It seemed there was a lingering sadness in everything the boy did now. "Ready to meet your cousin?"

Desmond nodded once, and their eyes slid back to the dorm door as he knocked. There was a noise on the other side, and Des almost reached up to toy with the key around his neck. There was a crash, a curse, and another voice laughing before the door swung open to reveal a younger-looking Clay.

"Yeah? Wonder Twin powers activate?"

Des laughed, grinning and holding out his hand. Clay quirked an eyebrow but took the gloved hand.

"Clay Kaczmarek," Des said, giving him a soft look. "I'm Des Miles, and given the circumstances, I'm afraid I gotta ask if you'd be willing to go for a walk around campus?"

Clay's eyes narrowed. "If you're from my dad—"

Des barked a laugh, Desmond laughing into his arm behind him. Clay looked surprised.

"No, I'm not from Harold, but I _am_ here to make your life a little easier—and a little better. Help you forget you damned family business."

Clay's eyes narrowed again but told them to wait. He shut the door, and Desmond snorted.

"Nice intro, retard."

Des punched him lightly in the arm. "You wanna try it next time?"

"Sure. I'll open with, 'Hey, I'm your long-distant cousin because we allegedly have an ancestor from the Renaissance and some place named Masyaf in the ancient middle east, and your life's about to go to shit, even though you think it's going to get better—why don't we take a walk into a dark alley for a little chat so we can talk about technology that apparently made all the miracles in the Bible happen and random, creepy, disembodied women who appear randomly from the walls of the equivalent to videogame dungeons to talk to us? Oh, and this person here is the same man that I am, from a timeline that no longer exists anymore because we're rewriting it so that way we don't suffer anymore—he's fading, as a matter of fact, just vanishing away as we rewrite history. Oh, and you were supposed to go crazy and kill yourself, then lock your conscious away in a machine called the Animus that lets you _live_ the memories of our ancestors. But you're not going to if you just follow our every word to the letter.'"

Des laughed again, and the two of them blinked, owl-eyed when they saw Clay staring at them, looking completely miffed and a tad terrified.

"Who the hell are you two?" Clay asked, leaving the door propped partly with his foot. His roommate's head appeared in the opening of the room, and Des grinned at him.

"You got a café around here? You're gonna need something strong to drink and a seat."

"Can my roommate come with?"

"We'd rather he not," Desmond said and shrugged, "but if you'd feel better about this, you can bring him."

Clay looked hesitant, then closed the door gently.

And that was how they found themselves having coffee with Clay, explaining how they were the same person, showing him the key and the Apple (though they didn't activate it, not in a public place, though Clay agreed to let them into his dorm to show him once they were done). They told him about the Brotherhood, the Templars, Abstergo, the Animus, and his gruesome death in the other timeline. He took off his glove and showed him his hand, showed him how he could see the man through his hand, how he was _vanishing_.

And when they found themselves back in the dorm room, Desmond on Clay's bed while Des played Clay's death for him, watching his eyebrows shoot to his hairline and asking to see more of what they had from the Apple, showing him William and listening as Clay mentioned him seeing him before. Des let him fiddle around with the Apple, reclining in the chair set up in the small room, and Clay sat on the bed, Desmond curling around him and watching. After a while, sitting in relative silence as he played with the Piece, Clay looked up, meeting Des' gaze.

"And what do you need me for, if everything is already taken care of?"

Des smirked, leaning back. "That's just the thing, Clay. It _hasn't_ been taken care of."

Clay's look soured. "So what do you need me to do?"

"I need you to stick with Desmond while I take care of the temple."

"So you're going to unleash this megalomaniac on the world in order to save it, and buddy boy here is going to kill her and take out _Abstergo_ , the most powerful company on the planet just outside of Wal-Mart and McDonalds?"

"Yes."

"And you want me to babysit?"

"No," Des said firmly, his smirk devolving into a frown. "I want _you_ to help him find the other Pieces, because you're the only other one I know of who can activate these stupid things."

"Not your own fath—"

"Even _if_ I was sure he could, I wouldn't let him near those with a hundred-foot pole."

Clay grinned deviously. "Who's paying for the trip around the world?"

Des grinned back, matching his look. "No one. You're just gonna take what you need with a little help from the Pieces. We'll get you over to Italy, and from there on out, you two are on your own."

Clay hummed, pursing his lips. "I haven't graduated."

"If you want to, you can, but then you'll have to answer to my father."

"I don't have the skills to help Desmond."

"I can teach you as we go to the temple."

"So…" Clay paused, looked up, and then frowned. "Lemme get this straight: you're wanting me to help your… _you_ get these magical pieces of technology to help you defeat some evil bitch out to dominate all of earth because she's got a spider in her cunt, and if I don't, I'm going to be contacted by your father to enlist myself for psychological torture?"

Des pretended to think it over, then grinned. "Yes."

Clay hummed, stroking his chin, then tossed him the Apple again. "Sure, you're crazy enough you look like fun—"

"And you could use some fun right now. Best cancel your appointments with the shrink."

Clay looked surprised, then blinked and laughed. "You really do know your shit. I haven't told _anyone_ about that."

Des grinned. "You're fine here. I told you: I've already seen this line play out. It's carpe diem now or never, baby."

Clay snorted, leaning back against Desmond, who squawked in indignation.

"Count me in. This is gonna be better than any frat party."

By the time Clay's roommate had returned, Clay was gone completely, leaving behind a simple note telling him not to worry, but he had bigger matters that needed attending to right then. It was an entertaining time traveling to the temple, camping in shelters and bickering about asinine things, but he was okay with that. Desmond and Clay seemed to get along well enough as they plotted and planned how to get what they needed and the best way to do it, relying predominantly on what the Apple would tell them and what Des knew, but by the time they were standing in front of the temple, Des felt upset. He had spent the last few weeks with the two, training them, growing closer to them, and they had both become his family, all three of them supporting one another. He was going to miss them dearly—even if nothing outstanding had happened along the way, between teaching Clay the necessary skills and furthering Desmond's training (which, he was proud to say that Desmond was having _fun_ under his instruction, and he was already teaching him better than William. He gave credit where credit was due, however, to his ancestors for that). Those past six years with his younger self had been the best six years of any lifetime he had had so far. Never mind now that his whole body was see-through. Never mind now that Desmond had been clinging tightly to him. Never mind now that if he didn't do this he was going to fade anyway. He just hoped there was enough substance to trigger the mechanism.

When he entered the temple alone, Desmond and Clay watched him go off with instructions to check in five to see if stuff had happened, if Juno had exited, and he didn't even pay attention to the two bickering women when he entered the chamber.

Second verse, same as the first.

Without even thinking, he placed his hand on the pedestal and let the power kill him, but he finally felt something akin to peace in his chest as he felt it rip him apart inside, despite Minerva's protesting. He had been expecting it, had been longing for the quiet and the dark that engulfed him. That and Desmond hadn't waken up one day to find him just completely gone. That was probably the most reassuring part of knowing he was sacrificing himself.


	7. Chapter 7

What he wasn't expecting was to wake up, again, staring at himself in the mirror with blood all over what appeared to be golden armor he was wearing. He blinked, frowning. It was a dark, sticky-looking concoction, dirt making it thick and pasty like bad movie graphics. And it was all over the armor.

"Fuck, can't I just stay dead?" he hissed, straightening and taking stock of his situation.

He had a spear in his hand, the Staff at his back, and he could feel the power of the Pieces of Eden flowing through him, filling him. Gauntlets, breastplates, a helmet, and more, he had an entire set of armor that seemed to conform to his body as he tested it.

"Not yet," he heard a familiar voice say, and he looked to see Desmond sitting on the sink top, arms crossed. He looked much older than twenty-two. "I'm not that good. I need your help, and since you're me, we can merge together, right?"

"Where are we?" he growled as he noticed the ruined bathroom, the eviscerated Abstergo goons lying on the floor.

"Abstergo. Juno partnered with Rikkin. I'm not strong enough by myself, even with the armor of the gods and your training. I didn't let them put me in the Animus, like you said."

Des frowned, gesturing to the filthy armor. "So these are Pieces of Eden?"

"Hey, I followed your instructions to the letter, and Minerva taught me how to bring you back," the boy (ha! Boy? Always. He was _Des's_ boy) snapped with a scowl, and Des snorted.

"Hey, if you're done talking to yourself in there, we could use some help," he heard, and he spun around.

Clay was standing there, clutching a bloody shoulder as he staggered in with Lucy's help. Both looked frazzled, and neither one of them looked happy to hear him talking to himself. Of course, that wasn't anything new. He paced over and took Clay from Lucy as she started rummaging through a small backpack she was carrying full of supplies. He helped him sit against the wall before cutting his shirt off. Desmond was watching him from the counter as he did this, silent, until he looked at the boy-man and looked proud.

"Clay? Lucy?"

"They're alive," Desmond said, "and they're our lovers."

His eyes flew open. "You're kidding."

"Hey, Wonder Twins, get your shit together," Clay snapped as Lucy sighed, pulling out scissors, tweezers, and some thread.

"Clay, come on—"

"We're losing the bathroom! How are we gonna get to Juno if we lose the bathroom and our lives?" Clay hissed, and Lucy frowned at him as she pulled out the tiny bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

"We can do this."

"No," Des said, gripping the spear tighter as Desmond began to fade.

"We'll talk more later," Desmond murmured, grinning. "Just aim for the Eye."

Des quirked an eyebrow but said nothing more to him as he faded. He could feel the familiar padding accompanying the sensation of Desmond joining him in his mind, just like the bleeding effect but better. Rebecca and Shaun were coming; there were twenty or so men outside the bathroom trying to get in even though he had overridden the lock on the door, and they were one floor away from Rikkin and Juno. Perfect for him, not for the goons. He looked around the bathroom, at the destroyed stall doors and the bodies slumped over the toilets, the sinks missing chunks and the soap dispensers hanging open like the mouths of astonished spectators, and could hear the doorway trying to be overridden. Lucy was frowning at him. He was back. He was back again, in a solid body, with the young boy he had spent so much time with who was now a man (now _himself_ ). And none of his ancestors.

"Did you even hear anything I said?" she hissed as she worked with Clay's shoulder.

"No," Des repeated, starting toward the door. "No, I didn't need to. You get the hell out of here. I'm going to take care of Juno and Rikkin."

"Not by yourself you aren't!" Lucy snapped. "What if—"

"Get yourselves and everyone else out of here. When I destroy the Eye, there's going to be the equivalent of a nuclear explosion according to history, and if the Eye is destroyed, then the armor will be destroyed as well and—"

He didn't know why he was saying this. He was destined to die, it seemed, just when everything looked better. He scowled. Clay looked like he was in severe pain, probably was, and he needed to get out of here. This was not going to be a clean ending. None of his endings were. Not even as he wore the alleged "armor of God."

"A chain reaction of nuclear explosions," he growled. "Get everyone you can as far away from here as you can."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Clay snarled, and Des was getting antsy. He could hear them getting closer to breaking down the door. "We just finished collecting them!"

"I'm going to destroy all of this. All… all the Pieces of Eden. They're all gathered here. All forty-eight of them now, and I'm going to completely destroy all of them. That's the equivalent of forty-eight nuclear explosions in one tiny area. Got it? Then let the schizo do his work," he responded, narrowing his eyes at Clay, who seemed genuinely shocked.

"You're not the same person," the man muttered, and Des sneered. "Wait, _Des?_ You stopped fading? Minvera's trick really worked?"

"I always knew you were a clever son of a bitch. You can ask the other Desmond that, too."

"Other… Desmond?" Lucy questioned as Clay's face split in glee.

"Des!"

"You _just_ called us Wonder Twins."

"That was nickname for you since you first hooked up with me."

Des walked over to the door as he looked at Clay with a grimace and a nod, feeling the spear charge beneath his fingers, and he gave his best battle cry as the bathroom opened.

Thirty men were a joke with his skill and his armor.

He watched Shaun and Rebecca come running into the hallway as he stood there, frowning at the bodies. He could feel the blood sliding down his cheek and into the armor, fighting the urge laugh at how messily they had died. They put up a good struggle, but they relied too heavily on gun power. That was too easy. He nodded a greeting and walked the other direction, to the last staircase and to his final destination.

"Get them out of here and clear the area," he called over his shoulder. "I'm nuking this place."

He entered the stairwell and paced up the stairs. It was eerily silent.

"Thanks," Desmond said, and he glanced at the now-grown boy as they walked together. "Looks like we still lost in the end, didn't we?"

Des paused, smiling sadly. "Yeah, but at this point I just want to rest forever. I'll have died four times."

The boy looked at him. "Sorry for bringing you back again after you faded out. It was fun, you know, living our life. It was great until Rikkin came to power and partnered with Juno."

Des inhaled. He remembered releasing her. His mini me had done him proud. With a nod, he tightened his hold on the spear and finished walking up the stairs with purpose. They reached the door shortly after, and he was surprised to find someone looking a little like the hologram of Minerva waiting there with a frown.

"It was all I could give you to right the wrongs you brought by unleashing Juno," the woman said, her image shorting out.

Des quirked an eyebrow when he saw the Piece of Eden flickering there, in the wall. Nevertheless, he nodded once.

"Thanks. I think it's time we end this for good, don't you think?"

Minerva snorted, and Des rolled his eyes. Desmond was gone.

"It will never end, not so long as—"

"Just shut up," he growled, already tired of listening to her. "I'm here, all right? You know, Shaun once said something interesting to me. He said that human nature is man's tendency to destroy himself. Well, I'm gonna say he's right. It's gonna happen, again and again, and we won't be able to stop it, but I'm here to right the fact that I let Juno out, okay? Be happy with what you can get because either option wasn't going to end well."

Minerva was silent, the image flickering in and out.

"How the hell are you here, anyway?"

"Punishment," Minerva hissed, "twisted retribution for abandoning Juno, according to her."

"That makes two of us who can't stay dead," Des said with a huff as he placed an armored hand on the entry pad and watched the door slide open.

He was surprised to find a large, open office, with red carpeting and shelves lined with the Pieces. He stepped in, hearing the door shut as Minerva wished him the best, and stood there. It was sparse in the huge room. There was a large desk at the far end, and entire wall of windows, and he could see Juno standing near one of them, watching him with a disgustingly warm smile. An imposing, black, leather chair behind the desk kept the person, Alan Rikkin, faced away from him.

"You came," the man in the chair said, and Des stepped forward.

"I told you he would. Now is our last chance to persuade him, Alan," Juno said, stepping toward Des with her arms outstretched. "He looks like a warrior in the armor: a perfect poster child for the new world."

"I'm not joining anybody," Des growled, lifting the spear into an alarmingly familiar stance.

"Stop your childish fantasies, Juno," the man in the chair growled. "I have seen it. We are going to lose."

Juno frowned at the man in the chair as the chair spun around. Des snarled as he crouched into a fighting position. The man was young and in a black suit, with short black hair that was slicked back and with an eye that was a creepy bluish grey, cold and icy.

His other was the fabled Eye of Horus from the Egyptians.

It was pressed into his skin, replacing his other eye. Stark gold color shone brilliantly against pale skin, and the whole thing almost seemed to fit into his head perfectly, the tails of gold pressed tightly into him and probably welded there. He could feel the power flowing through it from where he was, could see the device working. Juno looked less than pleased when Rikkin rose.

"Then why do I get the feeling that you won't just let me kill you?" he growled.

Rikkin smirked, pulling out the Sword from behind his desk. Desmond could see the helicopter flying off outside the building. The others had probably gone to the roof for the chopper instead of all thirty-something floors to escape.

"You had me worried, at first," Rikkin said, looking over the sword with a fond look. "I thought that Juno's gift had been broken. You see, I looked ahead to the future to my death, and I saw us linked together in a battle of arms. It was absolutely horrifying and utterly thrilling all at the same time."

Des growled as Rikkin stepped around to the front of his desk, testing the Sword lightly.

"And then you died the first time in the temple, and I knew something had gone wrong. Imagine my relief when I saw you brought back to life by your friends. They're excellent friends, you know. Very loyal. Perfect subjects, don't you think? They could have been your disciples."

Des stood straight, narrowing his eyes at the knowing smile Rikkin sent his way. Juno was watching off to the side, frowning.

"But then you got hit by a car. I was extremely disappointed in you. I thought you had broken Juno's gift yet again."

He snorted, adjusting his feet a little bit apart and letting the spear dangle at the side. If the Eye of Horus said Rikkin was going to die, Des was going to let the man talk. Besides, it was an interesting account, and he would be the only one to ever hear it, and he had to give Lucy and the others time to get farther away.

"Nevertheless, Minerva did something, and we're still not sure what, but she brought you back. She has faith in you."

Des sneered.

"I have faith in you. I know you're going to kill me and Juno."

"The Eye of Horus is not always right," Juno hissed. "It was meant to guide."

"The Eye of Horus is the see all, end all," Rikkin responded, lifting the sword into a novice's fighting pose. Des crouched. "I'm not a skilled fighter. Not like you. But I will fight until my last breath, Miles, so prepare."

"You're a novice still: where are your greys?" he heard himself ask, wanting to laugh as he remembered all the novices he had trained over his many lifetimes.

Rikkin laughed. "Ah, yes, the fabled Bleeding Effect remakes your personality no matter what life it is. Will it help you or harm you in our fight?"

"It's saved me plenty of times," Des hissed, beginning to circle. "And their souls are no longer with me, though their cheek and talents are."

He could see the power in Rikkin's stride, despite his novice stance, and he knew that Rikkin was more powerful than he had initially thought. A good ploy, but not good enough. Silence reigned for several minutes as they silently assessed each other.

"Will you please get on with the fight before I take matters into my own hands?"

"Yes, we all know how well you can fight, Juno," Rikkin said with a snort. "You used to spar with me. I know how you fight."

"He does not."

"I'm sure I'll fight you anyway, Juno," Des said. "Get a ticket and get in line. Don't you know anything about final bosses?" he continued, but it wasn't really him. He could feel Desmond speaking, drawing out the conversation. "Final bosses always have multiple stages. I'm fully expecting to fight Rikkin, then the both of you, and then you take him over completely, and we fight you before we get the chance to destroy either Piece of Eden. That's how these things work."

"We?" Juno asked, looking decidedly curious and pissed off.

"Oh, yeah," Des said, "you didn't know? There's two of me in one body." He grinned toothily. "So it's technically it's a fair fight, two versus two."

"What does that mean?" Rikkin asked.

"He's stalling, Alan," Juno hissed. "Start the fight."

"This is my last conversation, Juno—"

"You could be wrong!" Juno snarled. "The Eye of Horus is—"

"The eye to the future," Desmond supplied, more than willing to help with the vicious cycle of self-fulfilling prophecy, upbeat and perky and the both of them laughed internally at the look that scrawled across Juno's face.

Des sneered again. The chopper was relatively small now, so he could fight in knowing they were out of the building.

"I've been waiting for this for a long time now," Des huffed, and with a barked laugh, he found himself flying forward to meet the Templar in a clash of weapons.

He felt the jolt of the Sword when it struck his spear, heard the ring of the weapons in his ears. He snarled, backing off and swinging down the hooked end of the spear before ducking under the swing. He clashed weapons with him again, feeling the power transfer from the Sword to its brethren, and he drove the butt of the spear down in vain attempt to strike Rikkin's foot. Although, remarkably, Rikkin was right: he wasn't a good fighter. But he did pack a punch.

It was almost painful to act worse than he actually was, to drag the fight out longer to give the others more time, ducking and weaving, poking and prodding, but never actually landing that final blow. It was nearly antagonizing to not be able to just flip the man over and ram the spear through his skull for the sickening crunch that would come with it.

Nevertheless, it was still disappointing at how quickly he had the man disarmed and on his back when he finally grew bored of pretending. With a sick grin, Des watched him.

"You weren't kidding. You do suck at fighting," Des said with a chuckle.

Rikkin laughed from his spot on the floor, pushing himself up and leaning back on his elbows. With a warcry, Juno rushed at him, and Des twirled around, avoiding the slice of the sword as he swept the ground with the spear in an attempt to knock her off her feet. She gracefully avoided it, and he snarled. He wasn't going to win if she fought.

But the Eye of Horus should make quite a nice blast.

As Juno swung at him again, he jumped out of the way and backed in an arc until he was in between her and the man. Then, with a twisted grin as Juno realized the mistake, Des laughed, spinning on his heel as he raised his spear, watching with sick satisfaction as he stepped forward enough to drive the spear into the man's eye, hearing the crack of the metal and the sudden pressure change of the atmosphere as the man jerked as if dying, and Des watched the body explode.

But as silence and darkness overtook him, at least he could say it was less painful than the other times he had died.

And when he opened his eyes again, he was _finally_ in Heaven, in Paradise, in wherever spirits went when they were dead. He would find out soon enough. The bed was comfortable; the sheets were silk, and his pillow was down. His bed had a canopy with the wispy white curtains and the window open to let in the soft golden light of the sun, the cool early morning breeze, the smell of the sea, which meant he was by a beach, and there were white fluffy clouds rolling along in the sky. He could hear the gulls screeching in the background, the quiet beginnings of the city waking. The walls were a soothing peach with white trimming, and he closed his eyes again with a smile. He was dead. He was free.

"How are you still here."

His eyes snapped open, and he looked to the doorway.

Only to see his father, Clay, Lucy, Shaun, and Rebecca standing there.

He wondered if it was too much to stay dead. He sighed heavily, lifting a hand to run through his hair. This room was Heaven. Perhaps they had all died as well.

"Why did you rescue me?" he responded, frowning. "You know, after dying four times, I think I've earned my eternal slumber."

"Four times?" his father asked, stepping over to frown at him, placing a hand on his forehead. "You've 'died' once—"

"Actually, no," he could hear himself say, but not actually say himself as he jerked away. It must be Desmond. "He did die four times. He died the first time a long time ago, like, thirty million years ago, the old codger—"

"Hey!" Des snapped, sitting up as he felt control taken from him.

"—and then again when he committed suicide, and then again when he released Juno a second time after helping me, and then again when he killed Rikkin and Juno."

His father was frowning, staring at him intently. Des raised an eyebrow as he adjusted to sit up more comfortably. He felt good. He felt well-rested and content as if he was finally living the good life. He looked out the window to see seagulls flying, and his eyes closed as he inhaled deeply, listening to their screeches and the early morning murmurs of the beach-goers. The breeze caressed his face, made him smile softly as it curled around his head and down his neck, tickling his arms and playing lightly across his chest.

"Gotta problem?" he finally asked quietly, reveling in the utter contentment he felt.

"I told you, Wonder Twins," Clay said, his shoulder still bandaged up tightly as he settled on the bed. "He talked to himself in the bathroom, too. Then again, it's nice to see the two of you again. Oh, and, congratulations on wiping out half of Italy, by the way."

Des's eyes shot open wide as he looked at the one-time Subject Sixteen. His mouth was dry, and his stomach, clenched. He knew that there would be considerable damage from the explosions, but half of Italy wasn't worth it.

"Don't listen to him—"

"Yeah, once you blew up Abstergo, which we have on film might I add, the blast was powerful enough it triggered the volcanoes there. Did you know how powerful those volcanoes are—"

"Desmond," Lucy said, joining him on the bed as well as Shaun and Rebecca walked over. "You did not wipe out half of Italy."

"Of course," Shaun griped, "you wiped out _only_ a half a dozen cities around there."

Des's mouth closed, and his lips pursed before turning into a frown. He looked at Clay, who was wearing an infuriating smirk. Then, he sighed, closed his eyes, and turned his face toward the window again, feeling another breeze enter with another breath full of strong sea air.

"Dick," he muttered, and Clay laughed.

"Was he like that, too, in your time?" he heard the little Desmond ask, and he nodded, glancing out at the others from his lounging against the headboard.

"Yeah. He hasn't changed at all—well, except for the fact that he's no longer painting Abstergo in his own blood. You know, nothing major."

The others were watching him with suspicious curiosity, and Des closed his eyes again, sighing.

"I wish I were dead. For real. No more of this stupid 'alive again' stuff."

There was a heavy silence in the room for a minute before he opened his eyes and looked around. If Abstergo was officially gone, then the assassins were in control again. It was just a cycle, something that humans did. Lucy was watching him from his left with his father, and Clay was on his right. Shaun and Rebecca were standing at the foot of the bed.

"Well," Shaun started, "it'd be all fine and dandy if you were dead—if we didn't need someone who knew how to run this bloody Order."

He wrinkled his nose halfheartedly. He had led four lifetimes full of death and pain, and all he wanted was to rest. "What?"

"Congrats, Mentor," Rebecca said softly.

He was silent for a moment before he sighed, closing his eyes again. He wasn't going to enjoy this in the slightest, but he supposed his lineage could do nothing more than lead the Order. They were incompetent, and perhaps they needed it. Desmond agreed quietly, saying that he was enjoying this utter peace inside of him, this wonderful beach morning, this quiet energy humming through his system and the warmth that shivered out with every breeze, the soft sheets pooled around his waist. He wanted to savor this moment, perhaps for the rest of this life.

"Fine, but you have to promise me no more dying until I'm officially gone for the final time."

As the others laughed, he figured that maybe he could keep going as long as this peace in his breast remained and the contentment continued to feed his strength.

* * *

 **Okay. So I have to ask what you thought. XD I can't tell you how may times I've reread this because I wasn't sure of it. The more I read it the more I realized why I hadn't posted it. Maybe it's time to delve into the redone Hunchback/AC story and post. It might keep me sane from this ridiculous master's program.**


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